


Of Braids & Secondary Colors

by YellowMustard



Series: The Collie [2]
Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Also everyone is ~soft, Connor being a good brother, Evan Hansen & Zoe Murphy Friendship, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Gay yearning, Happy Ending, M/M, One Shot, Someone Help Her, Tree Bros, Zoe is crushing, Zoe is hopeless honestly, galaxy girls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-14 00:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21006884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowMustard/pseuds/YellowMustard
Summary: "Eye contact," Zoe repeats to herself.She's a flourishing succulent.She's got this.(OR: That time Zoe tried to take all her own advice and confess her love to Alana Beck. "Tried" being the key word.)





	Of Braids & Secondary Colors

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> So this is my FIRST TIME writing Galaxy Girls! Essentially this oneshot is a big fat thank you for all the support on The Collie. You guys are just lovely. I got a few requests for a follow up - so here it is! It's pretty much complete in itself, so this will remain a oneshot. I strongly recommend reading Collie first - this story references it a LOT, and there's some details that won't really make sense as a stand-alone.
> 
> Also tree bros are and will always be my fave, so there's still BUNCHES of Connor/Evan in this, whoops :))
> 
> follow my shiny new tumblr! https://theyellowestmustard.tumblr.com/

* * *

A French braid, Zoe decides.

Her hair always looks pretty in one of those. Her cheekbones pop when her hair is pulled back on the sides, and the extra volume on the top balances out the shape of her face.

A little makeup, maybe. Nothing too over the top. Mascara. Lip gloss. No, lip  _ tint. _ And she should probably fill in her brows, too.

“Why?” Evan asks, sounding rather baffled.

“There’s gaps,” she informs him, which only makes him look even more bewildered.

“What?  _ Where?” _

Zoe ignores him. 

She’s got more important things to think about right now.

Is it weird if she, like.  _ Intentionally _ wears that one shirt that makes her boobs look good? The one that’s just a little too low cut for school but probably  _ just _ covers enough that she won’t get dress-coded? 

Is it kind of sleazy to wear something in hopes that it makes Alana Beck look at her chest?

She's already dressed, but the shirt in question beckons to her from her open closet.

“We’re gonna be late,” Connor gripes from the doorway. “You’re taking forever.”

“Find your own way to school then,” Zoe snaps.

She knows it's not really fair to take her anxiety out on him. 

But she can't help it. 

Her heart is already drumming wildly in her chest, pulse racing and mouth dry as she thinks about what she's planning on doing today, what she's actually going to  _ do.  _

And seeing Connor with his arms wrapped around Evan from behind, leaning casually against her doorway like it's no big thing to hold the person you love, just... it's not helping. At all.

Both boys seem more than a little taken aback at the sudden venom in her voice. 

Evan's eyes go all big.

Shit.

  
  


"Sorry," she mutters. "Thanks for waiting for me. I promise we won't be late. I'll speed the whole way there."

"You'll do no such thing," Evan chides. 

  
  


He wriggles his way out of Connor's arms and crosses the room, planting both hands firmly on her shoulders. 

The touch is grounding and warm and safe.

She can do this.

"Eye contact," Evan tells her, making  _ actual  _ eye contact with her like he's trying to prove his point, and he smiles encouragingly. "You're a flourishing succulent, OK?"

  
  


Evan is truly the best.

  
  


"Eye contact," Zoe repeats to herself. 

  
  


She's a flourishing succulent.

  
  


She's got this.

  
  


"You two need to fuck off for a sec," she announces. "And close the door."

  
  


Zoe changes her shirt.

* * *

They drive to school in relative silence. Zoe can't really bring herself to speak. She's restless with nervous energy, and her knee keeps fucking jiggling, and she can't stop tapping her fingers against the steering wheel. Contrarily, though, that energy doesn't translate to speech. In fact, it feels like her mouth has sealed itself shut. She can't even bring herself to make fun of Connor when she sees Evan kiss his cheek in her rear-view mirror, causing said cheek to turn bright red.  


Eye contact, she tells herself.  


Eye contact.

The three of them part ways upon arriving at school. Connor gives her a brotherly pat on the back that nearly knocks the wind out of her, offering her a toothy grin and a  _ “good luck, shit head” _ as he strides off, already making goo-goo eyes at Evan the moment he turns away.

Zoe digs through her locker for her morning textbooks.  


Checks her reflection way too many times. 

Readjusts The Shirt even more times.

And then, on the way to homeroom, there she is.

  
  
  


It's  _ her _ .

  
  
  


Alana Beck looks good in orange. Like. The best. Zoe thinks everyone else should be banned from wearing orange, honestly. It's just for Alana now. 

Her long braids are pulled up in a high ponytail, secured with a big, fluffy scrunchy, which just might be the cutest fucking thing Zoe's ever seen in her life. She's clutching a pile of books to her chest with one arm as she pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose with two fingers, showing off perfectly manicured nails. Clear nail polish. Very practical. 

Her whole fucking adorable face lights up when she notices Zoe.

"Hi, Zo! Wow, I like your hair like that. Did you do that yourself? It really suits you."

Zoe's heart lurches all the way up into the back of her throat.

  
  


Fuck.

  
  


OK.

  
  


Eye contact. 

  
  


Don't be an Evan, Zoe. 

  
  


Zoe makes eye contact.

  
  


And. 

  
  


Fuck.  _ Fuck.  _

What's Zoe supposed to do after the eye contact? She can't quite remember. Her brain has just...frozen, flashing error messages at her,  _ does not compute, shutting down _ , because oh my god Alana Beck's eyes are a night sky and it's a goddamn tragedy that everyone fawns over blue eyes all the time because there is something to be said for brown so dark it's almost black, something magnetic and ethereally beautiful. And Jesus, her  _ eyelashes.  _ She's got enough of them for two people at least, lush and full and fluttery. And just. They're so  _ animated _ . Bright and clever and sparkling. She's too perfect to be real.

Alana's gaze falters.

"I, um. Zoe? Are you alright?"

  
  


Zoe's not alright. Of course she's not. Because at some point she realizes she's going to have to stop looking at Alana Beck's painfully beautiful eyes and look at something else. How is she meant to be  _ alright _ with that?

"...Zoe?"

  
  


And. Shit. Fucking shit. What the fuck is Zoe  _ doing? _ Has she actually just been standing in the hallway with her mouth hanging open gawking at Alana like an idiot? What the fuck is  _ wrong  _ with her? Her brain might not remember what to do after eye contact, but it vaguely registers that it's probably not  _ this. _

  
  


"I have to go," Zoe splutters.

  
  


She trips over her shoelaces as she strides away.

  
  


What the actual fucking fuck. 

How did that go so disastrously  _ wrong? _

  
  


Evan and Connor have a good chuckle at her expense, at least.

"So wait," says Evan, fighting back laughter. "You couldn't do it. The eye contact thing. The eye contact thing that you gave me  _ such a hard time about--" _

"I  _ could,"  _ Zoe protests indignantly. "I made  _ perfect _ eye contact, actually." 

"I bet," Connor snorts. "I've heard talking helps too, though." 

Zoe drops her reddening face into her palms with a frustrated groan.

"You don't  _ get _ it. It was  _ mortifying. _ I just... didn't say anything. I just stood there staring at her because her eyes are so stupidly  _ pretty."  _

Evan glances at Connor, an almost exultant smile on his face. "I've been there," he murmurs, earning him a dark blush and an elbow jab in the ribs. "Shut up," Connor mutters. "You're cute. And I have a boyfriend, so."

Evan’s smile only widens at the word  _ boyfriend.  _ Like, an  _ oh that's me!  _ smile. 

Like he’s still completely fucking awestruck that Connor is  _ his.  _

"You two are nauseating," Zoe tells them. 

"Yep," Connor agrees.

It's not fair.

Zoe wants to be nauseating, too. She wants to be nauseating with  _ Alana _ .

"We'll come up with a new plan of attack for Monday," Evan tells her, seeming to sense her distress. "Don't worry."

  
  


The fact that Evan Hansen is telling Zoe Murphy not to worry is the most worrying thing in the world, honestly.

  
  


* * *

Alana Beck likes Zoe's hair in a braid.

This is useful information. Maybe the only worthwhile part of their conversation on Friday morning.  


If you could even call it a conversation. 

Monologue would probably be more accurate.

Whatever.

The point is that Zoe's pulling her long-ass hair into a braid again.

Her arms ache.

"No euphemisms," Connor drawls lazily. "No innuendo, no puns, no plays-on-words about it. She won't get it." 

Zoe rolls her eyes.

"She's not dumb like  _ you.  _ Can you get your boots off my fucking bed?"

Connor scoffs at her, but does as he's told, dropping his ankles so they hang over the edge of Zoe's mattress rather than being stretched out on top of the covers.

"Just take your shoes off," Evan says from where he's lounging in Connor’s arms, his back leaning against Connor's chest. He wriggles his socked toes for emphasis. 

"Not sure how I feel about the two of you being on my bed at  _ all _ ," Zoe grumbles.

"You asked for help," Connor reminds her. "And we're kind of a package deal, so."

"Just be upfront and honest, Zo," Evan interjects before Connor gets too argumentative. "Don't hide behind subtleties, is what Connor's saying. Like. I guess try and find a natural way to slot it into conversation? But...no  _ cross-platform compatible _ stuff, OK?"

No subtleties. No innuendo. No puns. 

Upfront and honest.

Zoe can do that. She's sure she can.

There’s bound to be lots of ways to casually pepper in the fact that she’s bi in normal conversation. 

And regardless of whatever happens after that, at least Zoe will have some answers. 

Because then Alana, being the open book she is, will most definitely reveal her own orientation. And Zoe will be able to gauge her reaction, probably, and determine whether or not Zoe’s bisexuality is. Y'know. A fun fact she might be interested in.

It’s not the same as asking her out. But it’s a good start. 

At least then Zoe will know if she has a chance or not.

Alana’s not around on Monday mornings. She has...some club, one of her many extra-curriculars before school. Zoe can’t remember which. She knows, though, that she probably won’t get to see Alana until lunch. 

Which means the day goes by very very slowly. 

As each lagging second drags on, Zoe swears her stress levels double. She goes through the motions in all her morning classes, but she’s barely aware of anything that happens. Her brain feels clogged; overflowing with  _ Alana Alana Alana _ , rehearsing what she’s going to say over and over, trying out different variations and preparing for every possible outcome, every topic of conversation Alana might present her with.

  
  


_ Oh, my weekend? Yeah, it was good. I came out to some friends. They were really supportive. Oh, you haven’t heard? I’m bi, so. _

_ My plans for the summer? Not a whole lot. I mean, pride month in June, so I’ll probably go to some parades and stuff. _

_ Hey, you know what’s awesome? Girls. Girls are just great, aren’t they?  _

  
  


She feels ready. She’s prepared and strong and confident enough to take on the world. 

  
  


She is Zoe Fucking Murphy. 

  
  


She can  _ absolutely  _ tell Alana she’s bi.

  
  


The cafeteria is already packed by the time Zoe gets there. It takes Zoe a while to spot her in the sea of faces.

  
  


But then when she  _ does _ , she kind of can’t tear her eyes away. 

  
  


Alana beams at Zoe from across the room and comes bounding up to her, lunch tray in hand. She looks genuinely excited to see her.   
  


And like.  _ Fuck _ what Zoe was saying about orange being the perfect color for Alana. It’s clearly purple. This exact shade of purple. She’s fucking glowing in it, all twinkling dark eyes and impeccably straight teeth - she  _ had  _ to have had braces as a kid, surely; nobody’s teeth are  _ that _ straight. And Zoe notices for the first time that although Alana walks with her spine perfectly aligned, she also has this little spring in her step, bouncing on the balls of her feet in a way that’s almost childlike. It’s the most endearing thing in the world.

And now Zoe’s infatuated with the way Alana  _ walks.  _ Shit.

  
  


“Zoe, hey! How are you?”

  
  


That’s a very simple question.  _ How are you? _

  
  


Zoe can answer that. That’s one of the questions Zoe has rehearsed her answer to.

  
  


“I’m really bi,” Zoe blurts out.

  
  


And OK. That’s...one way to do it, Zoe supposes. 

Not exactly naturally peppered in.

But she’s ticked the upfront and honest boxes, at the very least.

  
  


Alana regards her in silence for a moment. 

  
  


Which is nerve-wracking. Alana’s never silent.

Zoe holds her breath.

  
  


And then Alana grins exuberantly, making her cheeks go all squishy and adorable, and she just looks so  _ delighted _ that Zoe finds herself grinning back too.

“Oh my  _ god _ , Zoe that’s...am I the first person you’ve told? I am  _ so  _ honored that you’d share something so personal with me. I think that says a lot about our friendship. And of  _ course  _ I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to. You can trust me.”

  
  


Zoe feels her grin slacken.

  
  


“Um--” says Zoe.

  
  


“Just-- _ wow _ , I’ve never really had anyone  _ come out _ to me before! I mean, there was my cousin when I was nine, but he lives in Minnesota and I don’t really see very much of him anymore. And he didn’t really come out to  _ me _ , specifically, he kind of came out at Thanksgiving in front of all the family. I have some pretty conservative family members, so it was...an interesting Thanksgiving, to say the least. My grandpa said he was only thankful that he wasn’t the turkey.”

  
  


“Um--” says Zoe.

  
  


“I know. Awful, right? I hope your own family have taken it well? Have you told them yet? Because if you need my support to come out at home I’m more than happy to help you. I’ve been told I’m very good at talking to adults. The guidance counselor told me I’m ‘mature beyond my years.’”

  
  


“Um--” says Zoe.

  
  


“You don’t need to give me an answer right away. Think about it. You know I’m just a phone call away if you ever need me, OK?”

  
  


Alana reaches over and gives Zoe’s arm a squeeze.

  
  


Zoe’s brain keels over and dies at the contact.

  
  


“Have a great day, Zoe!”

  
  


And with that, she’s flouncing away, with that cute little bounce in her step, head held high, braids swinging jauntily.

  
  


Zoe stares dumbly at the empty space she leaves behind.

That...that was supposed to work. How did that not  _ work? _

Alana’s not homophobic. 

That’s...not exactly  _ good  _ news, because Zoe kind of already knew that. It’s just...neutral news. 

  
  


But…

  
  


But Zoe’s no closer to knowing anything about Alana’s sexuality than she was this morning. 

And she’s no closer to knowing if Alana’s interested in  _ her. _

  
  


How. How the actual  _ fuck.  _

How is it that all of the advice Zoe gave Evan, all the advice that would have saved Evan and Connor from their little pre-relationship disaster spiral if Evan had  _ actually followed it… _

How is it that none of it is working for  _ Zoe? _

What the fuck is  _ happening? _

  
  


She knocks on Connor’s closed bedroom door that evening. She needs to vent to somebody about the whole thing. Her brother is a surprisingly good listener, most of the time. 

There’s no response from Connor’s room. She knocks again, harder.

  
  


From behind the door, Zoe hears the tiniest squeak of alarm. Distinctly Evan.

“Nope,” Connor calls, sounding suspiciously breathless. “Fuck off, Zo.”

  
  


Goddamn it.

  
  


Zoe slinks away, feeling moody and snubbed and decidedly grossed-out.

  
  


She gives the door a single, irritated kick as she goes.

* * *

“So. I have a confession.”

Zoe screws up her nose.

“Honestly, Evan, after what I almost walked in on the other day? Not quite sure I wanna know.”

Evan splutters, choking on his iced coffee as his cheeks darken in embarrassment.

“Th-that’s not--we weren’t even...we weren’t  _ doing _ anything--”

“Uh-huh,” says Zoe sardonically. “Sure.”

  
  


It almost feels nostalgic, hanging out with Evan like this, just the two of them while they wait for Connor to return home from therapy. Zoe’s kind of missed it, actually. Evan’s easy to talk to, and he makes her laugh, and they have this weirdly calming effect on each other that's just...really nice. 

And sometimes Evan praises her for how good Benson the succulent is looking these days. 

Which makes Zoe feel  _ very  _ pleased with herself.

She tilts her head in Evan’s direction, offering him a wry smile.

“What’s the confession, then?”

Evan smirks, then leans forward with this sneaky, secretive look about him, like he’s about to reveal his involvement in some huge government conspiracy or something.  
  


“...I didn’t make eye contact.”

“...You what?”

Evan lets out a soft, almost self-deprecating little chuckle. 

“When I told Connor. After like. The whole thing with his hand? I didn’t make eye contact. Like, at all. I know I was meant to. But I was just...so goddamn terrified that I literally just stared at that fucking ugly abstract painting over your fireplace. For the  _ entire conversation _ . I confessed my love to  _ hotel room art. _ I was a wreck.”

Zoe bursts into giggles. She can’t help it. The confession, the mental image...it’s just all so  _ Evan.  
_

“Why am I not surprised?” 

“I said ‘um’ like, a million times, too,” Evan admits, shaking his head at himself. “And I forgot my whole speech thingy.”

Zoe grins. Nudges her shoulder against his.

“It all turned out OK, though, right? You  _ told  _ him, is the main thing. All that other stuff is just like...background noise. It’s filler. The actual  _ telling  _ is the bit that really matters.”

Evan gives her a pointed look. 

“Yeah,” he says, raising an eyebrow at her. “It’s, uh, funny you should say that, actually. I was going to say the exact same thing.”

  
  


And.

  
  


Oh.

  
  


Shit.

  
  


OK.

  
  


Zoe sees where this is going.

  
  


Evan picks up Benson from Zoe’s windowsill and holds him up to the light, turning the little pot over and over in his hands as he examines the ripening green buds.

“I mean...you  _ could _ drag this out another month. Two months. You can spend as long as you want pining, really, but...but why would you  _ want  _ to? Why torture yourself like that? You know what I mean?”

Zoe sighs.

“It’s just...scary. It’s a big risk,” she admits quietly, staring vacantly into her Starbucks cup.

Evan sighs, but it’s not an exasperated sound; it’s empathetic, somehow. Warm and caring.  
  


“It is,” Evan agrees. “But I can tell you that Connor was...Connor  _ is _ absolutely worth the risk. He’s worth  _ any _ risk.”

  
  


Evan’s still looking at Benson, but there’s suddenly something steadfast and unwavering in his gaze, something so completely  _ devoted _ , and Zoe can’t help but wonder if anyone will ever get that look on their face while talking about  _ her.  _

Evan’s eyes flit to Zoe.

“Is Alana?”

Zoe’s brain answers, even if her mouth does not.

  
  


_ Yes.  _

_ Yes yes yes yes yes fucking yes. _

  
  


Zoe lets out a deep, shaky breath. 

Squares her shoulders. 

Sets down her tea and turns to face Evan.

  
  


“Still not buying that you and Connor ‘weren’t doing anything’, though.”

“Oh my fucking  _ god,  _ Zoe--”

“I mean, that’s a big risk, too. My  _ mom  _ could’ve been home, Evan.”

“Zoe, can you  _ let it go--?” _

“I’m just  _ saying _ , maybe go to your own house if you two are gonna--”

“I hate you  _ so much _ , oh my  _ god--” _

  
  


Evan forgets about trying to get Zoe to confess to Alana, after that.

  
  


But Zoe doesn’t.

* * *

Zoe has gotten really efficient at braiding hair in the past month.

She can have her own hair in a French braid in less than five minutes, now, which is impressive considering how much hair she’s got. She can do Connor’s in less than two. It’s easier on somebody else, and Connor’s hair is considerably shorter than her own. She’d been pretty pleased with the result, too.

Until Evan had seen it and gotten  _ that  _ look on his face.  


And when Connor had emerged from his room later for dinner, the whole braid was askew and falling apart, and there was a distinctive trail of bruises scattered down Connor’s neck.

She’d almost regretted it, after that.

  
  


Zoe adjusts her own braid, eyeing her reflection critically in the girl’s bathroom mirror. 

She’s got it all figured out. 

Not until after school. Because if it all goes pear-shaped, Zoe’s going to want to just...curl up in her bed and cry, rather than sit through all her classes pretending that nothing’s wrong.

And not somewhere surrounded by people. Not somewhere either of them are going to feel self-conscious or embarrassed. But not at someone’s house, either. It has to be somewhere semi-public; so Alana feels like she’s got an out if she needs it.

The football field is the perfect spot.

The last bell rings. 

  
  


Zoe takes a deep breath and prays that Alana isn’t wearing purple.

Or orange.

She doesn’t think her heart could take it.

Zoe’s already waiting on the bleachers by the time the rest of the students start filing out. She’s successfully beaten the crowds today, and she sits perched at the edge of her seat as she tries to spot Alana as she passes the football field on the way to the parking lot.

“Alana!”

Alana freezes, then whirls around in the direction of Zoe’s voice.

Too late to back out now.

“Oh! Hi, Zoe!”

Alana’s wearing green today.

Zoe’s given up on the whole color thing. 

She’s beginning to realize that Alana just looks fucking incredible in literally every fucking stupid color that exists. 

Which is complete and utter bullshit, honestly. It’s  _ unfair. _

She heads in Zoe’s direction, with her usual flawless posture, only...

Only she doesn’t seem to have that usual pep in her step, today. 

She’s biting her bottom lip, and her eyes are downcast, and she keeps fidgeting restlessly with the strap on her backpack, twisting it between her thumb and forefinger as she walks.

She looks...almost a little  _ nervous. _

She shrugs her bag off her shoulders once she reaches Zoe. 

“Um...hi.”

Zoe’s pretty sure she’s never heard Alana say ‘um’ in her life.

“Hi,” Zoe echoes.

_ Worth the risk, _ Zoe reminds herself.  _ A hundred million percent worth the risk. _

She takes a deep breath and tries to will her hands to stop shaking. Her knees feel weak with fear, and she’s certain she’s lost the ability to swallow.

“Um--” Zoe says.

And at exactly the same time, Alana blurts out:

“I--I wanted to talk to you about something, actually.”

Zoe stills.

“...Oh.”

“Um. Yeah. So it’s...convenient to have run into you. Serendipitous, I suppose.”

This is not good.

This is absolutely not good.

Zoe’s made her  _ uncomfortable _ . 

It’s so  _ obvious _ , judging by the uncharacteristic awkwardness with which she holds herself, the way those dark, pretty eyes dart nervously around, like she’s avoiding looking at Zoe’s face. The way she rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet, too afraid to hold herself still.

  
  


It was the eye contact.

Or the coming out thing.

Or any of the other countless awkward encounters they’ve had over the past month. 

The time Zoe had tried to take a book out her hands in the hallway and had kind of just...grabbed her hand for a full three seconds. Or that time they’d studied together in the library at lunch and Zoe had said “clitical” instead of “critical”. Or the many,  _ many _ times Zoe’s been sure Alana’s caught her looking at her mouth like some sort of creep.

  
  


“What’s up?” Zoe croaks. 

  
  


She feels a bit faint.

“I. Um. OK, so. I guess the best way to say this is to...to just come right out and say it. But. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t...if I wasn’t a little...oh god,  _ sorry--” _

“You’re good,” Zoe manages weakly.

This is  _ bad. _

Alana looks absolutely  _ terrified. _

“I never struggle with words like this, I really am  _ so _ sorry, I just…”

“You’re fine,” Zoe says again.

“I...OK. I…”

_ Fuck fuck fuck fuck. _

“You’ve been wearing your hair in a braid more often,” Alana says, with absolutely no spaces between the words. “And I, um. I told you that I...that I...like it.”

And Zoe’s just...baffled, now.

“Uh...yeah?”

“Yes, I...but what I  _ meant _ to say is that I...I really  _ really  _ like it.”

Alana’s eyes widen a little on the word  _ ‘really’ _ , as though to emphasize just how  _ much _ she likes it.

And Zoe’s...completely flattered by the compliment. Her heart flutters helplessly in her chest,  _ tell me more _ , but…

She still feels like she’s missing something.

“...Um. Thank you?”

“I mean to say that I...I really like... _ you _ , actually.”

  
  


Zoe’s dying.

  
  


She’s dead _ .  _

  
  


Deceased.

  
  


Her brain's gone all buzzy and strange, and she feels so light she’s convinced her feet aren’t touching the ground. She’s floating. Levitating, like the stroke of an exclamation point hovering over its dot.

  
  


“So, um. I’m...really sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable. It...wasn’t my intention, believe me. I just...after the other morning in the hallway, and when you came out to me at lunch? I just felt like I was doing such a  _ terrible  _ job at hiding how I um. Feel about you. And I thought maybe it would be best to just come right out and--”

“Wait.”

_Hiding_...how she feels? 

What?

“Sorry, uh. What do you...mean by that?”

Alana fixes big, disbelieving eyes on her.

“When you came out?" she says, slowly. "In the cafeteria? I was so  _ flustered _ that I told this ridiculous story about my cousin and then practically ran away, I was just so desperate to get as far away from you as possible so I didn’t say something  _ completely _ inappropriate, and I--”

Zoe’s reeling.

That’s just...Alana, right? Alana’s fast-paced; talking a mile a minute with a glowing smile, electric and nimble because that’s how Alana  _ is. _

It’s not because Zoe makes her  _ nervous _ . It can’t possibly be.

“And...in the hallway?” Zoe probes gently, still dizzy with astonishment.

“You, um...you were wearing this... _ ohmigod, nevermind itdoesn’tevenmatterI’msoSOsorry--” _

Alana hides her face in her hands, looking absolutely mortified. 

And.

Oh.

The Shirt.

That One Shirt.

Oh.

“I was so  _ sure  _ you’d noticed me staring because you just...you just  _ stood _ there, you didn’t  _ say  _ anything and I was  _ so ashamed  _ of myself for just... _ ogling _ you like that, and--”

“Wait,  _ you  _ were ogling  _ me?” _

“I...I didn’t  _ mean  _ to, you just--”

“No, like...I was the one checking  _ you _ out, so…”

The words are out of Zoe’s mouth before she has the chance to take them back.

Alana goes quiet.

Then, softly, her voice pressed into the palms of her hands, small and humiliated and heartbroken:

“Are you making fun of me?”

Fuck.

Fuck,  _ what? _

“ _ No _ ,” Zoe protests, fiercely. Her hands shoot out, almost of their own volition, to tug Alana’s hands away from her face. “I’m  _ not.  _ Why would I--?”

“Because you’re...you’re cool and funny and smart and talented and...and  _ gorgeous,”  _ Alana says, meekly. “And I am...just...me.”

“Yeah,  _ exactly _ you're... you're  _ you.  _ You're the most intelligent person I've ever fucking met and you just...you care so  _ much _ about just...everything and everyone. And you treat every opportunity you're given with such genuine enthusiasm, and you work so  _ hard,  _ and you're insanely fucking pretty. You're  _ you _ . You're Alana Beck."

Alana stares at her in stunned silence.

"And, uh. I really  _ really  _ like Alana Beck. Like. Enough to keep putting my hair in a braid everyday. So."

"You think I'm pretty?" Alana says, very quietly.

And is it Zoe’s imagination, or is she kind of...inching closer?

"Mm,” Zoe hums vaguely, because...are there any other words in the English language? Zoe’s not sure. Is she fluent in English? Has she ever been?

She’s  _ sure _ the gap between them is closing.

She’s not sure which of them is closing it.

“You should wear green more,” Zoe mumbles, because it’s true.

They’re standing so close they’re breathing the same air, now.

Alana lets out this tiny, breathy giggle, and Zoe never wants to hear anything else ever again.

“Really?”

“Mm,” says Zoe again. “And orange. And purple.”

“Oh,” Alana says. Breathes.

  
  


Zoe doesn’t say anything back. 

  
  


She’s got more important things to do with her mouth at the moment.

Time stills. Drags. Passes. Or does it? Zoe doesn't know.

Zoe doesn't care, really.

And if Zoe gets home an hour later than she’d told Connor and Evan, with her braid all kinds of fucked up and a big dopey grin on her face, well.

  
  


Who the fuck are they to judge?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
